A Stranger's Words
by red panda with black wings
Summary: A stranger's help made the difference in Harry's life. Child abuse, not too horrible British swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**Not mine. sorry.**

John McAlper, aged 27, felt wary. Hell, it was unnatural for him _not _to feel wary nowadays.

He was walking in Privet Drive's park. Not a rare occurrence, seeing as he found himself doing it more and more often nowadays.

No, what worried him was how _quiet _it was. Privet Drive, despite its upholding to its standard of a picture perfect neighborhood, was far worse than other surrounding neighborhoods when it came to gangs.

All were composed of fat, spoiled teenage brats who were used to getting what they wanted, when they wanted it. When they didn't, they would do anything to get it. Anything.

Many carried knives and guns, with the instructions from their fathers to "Use it well."

The sort of philosophy that giving weapons to children under 17, without even bothering to teach them how to properly _use _them, was the perfect example of how Privet Drive's community worked.

The parents gave everything their children wanted to them without their earning it, and then blamed everyone else for the consequences.

A few years ago, a young boy, around 8 or 9 years old, was killed in a gang fight.

The adults didn't care, nor did anything about it. As far as they could see, the child was an outcast, an urchin, and he had obviously done something to deserve it. Their was clearly no fault to be found in _their _children, who had undoubtedly simply been trying to defend themselves against the violent, and possibly insane, whelp.

The kid's parents, grief stricken, moved away. And all the other members just stuck their bloody noses in the air and said, "Well, it's for the best."

Despite everything, he still came here, to this park. The brats, thankfully, simply ignored him, not even trying to hide the weapons that they held so carelessly.

There was always someone here. Whether it was a group, or a younger kid trying to escape, the park was never empty.

That was why he was so unnerved by the silence that night.

* * *

Harry was dying. He knew it. Everyone knew it. So why couldn't he just _die?_ He could feel the life draining out of him, and he was happy. Maybe, there might be people who wanted him, at the place where dead people go.

It had been painful at first. He had felt every slice in his skin, every cut like a red-hot poker. Then, the pain dulled, and the world slowed around him. He couldn't feel the pain, couldn't see their leering faces, couldn't hear their jeers. It took him a while to realize that the bullies were long gone. Harry hated them, hated them for not finishing him off sooner, hated them for leaving him to die slowly.

He sluggishly realized the world was turning dark. His last thought was,

_Dieing isn't as bad as everyone makes it out to be._

* * *

"Holy bloody shit."

John stared in horror. A kid, maybe seven, was lying on the ground, blood pooling around him as it drained away from his body.

John was reminded of the child who had been killed. This kid was even younger than him.

Selfishly, his first thought was to leave the kid to die. In this neighborhood, death was probably best for a kid who was picked on. It was an escape.

Then an image of the kid who'd died popped in his head. He remembered the parents crushed, devastated faces.

And for the first time, John decided to do something.

He knelt beside the kid, carefully surveying his injuries. Multiple long, deep cuts, most likely from a knife. Or knives, as was more likely.

His blood boiled. To see a kid this young, so cruelly hurt...

He would do whatever it took to keep this kid alive. The problem was, he wasn't a medic, and couldn't handle this kind of wound.

He dimly remember basic health classes.

"_Apply pressure to the wound with a piece of cloth," _His professor had said.

John did so, pulling off his shirt and gently applying it to some of the more major cuts to staunch the flow of blood.

He glanced around. If he called for an ambulance here, it would attract attention.

"Ah, hell," He grumbled. There was nothing he could do.

He cautiously lifted the boy up, being careful not to jostle him too badly. He knew you weren't supposed to move people who were injured, but what choice did he have?

He began walking to his house, a couple neighborhoods kid didn't even have the strength to move. Not that John blamed him.

He prayed the kid didn't die in his arms. He didn't deserve the honor, nor the guilt it would bring.

He finally reached the house. Entering, he placed the kid on the couch and grabbed his cell phone, which was lying on the counter.

He quickly dialed 9-1-1, tapping his foot impatiently as it seemed to take forever for the operator to pick up.

When she did, he described the situation with urgency. Once he had given the location, the operator promised him that an ambulance was already on the way.

He paced back and forth as he waited. Where the bloody hell were they?

They arrived in a good amount of time, wasting none of it on pleasantries as they brought in a stretcher.

One of the paramedics whistled as he caught sight of the kid.

Taking in his condition, the paramedics set him on the stretcher, and got him into the ambulance with little trouble.

The lead one glanced at John.

"You coming along?" He asked.

John hesitated only for a second. He nodded, and clamored in beside the kid.

They reached the hospital quickly, and wheeled him in, with John following behind.

He immediately went into the ER, where John was barred from the room.

"I'm sorry, sir," A nurse apologized, "But our doctors need total concentration if they want to save him."

With that, he was left in the waiting room, with nothing but a few health pamphlets to amuse himself. Hours went by, taking agonizingly long.

Eventually, a doctor came out, looking exhausted.

"We just barely managed to save him. He was on the brink of death when we got to him. He had lost a lot of blood, and his recovery was slow. We lost count of the stitches we had to use."

He paused. "It's odd, but around halfway through the operation, he started improving, as if he had suddenly found the will to live."

He shook his head in bewilderment, and left.

_What have I gotten myself into?_, John thought helplessly.


	2. Chapter 2 Yep, kid, you're blind

**Bah. For whatever reason, my computer won't allow me to type a a name like Mrs. Finch. I purposely put the space there, because otherwise it doesn't work. Therefore, I've resorted to simply typing out the abbreviations, no matter how frustrating it may be.  
**

"Sir, are you the father?" A doctor asked him. John clenched his fists. He felt like bloody screaming. He had been in this goddamn hospital for _5 hours,_ and his patience was worn thin.

He forced himself to calm down enough to answer the question. If he told the truth, that he didn't even know the kid's name, they'd call his parents, and he wouldn't get any information. Best stick to lying, then.

"Yes., I'm his father."

The doctor nodded, apparently relieved. "Very well than, Mr...?"

"Winslow," John supplied at random. "John Winslow."

"Yes, well, I'm sorry to say your son is in very bad shape. The cuts we were able to stitch up, but there are several other less obvious factors that are worrying."

He paused, giving him a calculating look. "He's malnourished and underweight for his age. He's had multiple blunt trauma received on his whole body, particularly his sides and ribs, three of which happen to be broken. From what we can tell, he has a few bones that have been broken that healed improperly. He also has a multitude of vicious scars on his back. All this, Mister Winslow, speaks of intense child abuse."

The doctor's voice grew sharper as he spoke. "Do you beat your child, Mister Winslow?"

John nearly snorted. Was that how they got the truth? By asking parents if they beat their children? Anyone would lie and say no. Thankfully, he himself was a good liar.

He said in a grief-stricken voice, "No. I put little Billy up for adoption when he was just a baby. My wife had just left, and I was having trouble keeping a job. I decided that it would be in Bill's best interest to put him up for adoption. This nice couple responded, and after a background check and all the paperwork was done, he went off with them." He wiped an imaginary tear from his face. "I had no idea that they would ever treat him like this. The moment I heard what had happened, I rushed over. I was terrified my little boy was going to die without me being able to say that I loved him."

The doctor's face softened. "It's alright, Mister Winslow. He's going to live. I apologize for casting suspicion on you, but it's required. The boy will be fine. However, there is one thing I chose not to mention before."

He paused. "He received bad cranial damage right at the wrong place, Mister Winslow. He'll never be able to see again. He's blind."

* * *

"Why can't I see?" The question made him wince. He internally shuddered at the idea of having to deal with questions like that every day. He felt new-found respect for the nurses who were currently lingering around the kid's hospital bed.

The kid really did look horrible. He was covered in bandages, had a cast on his left arm, and the whole top of his head was wrapped up. Bandages covered his eyes.

"Dear, it's alright, your father's here to see you, he'll explain everything to you." Respect gone.

Confusion flickered on the kid's face. "My father?"

The nurses backed off to give them a little privacy as he leaned over the bed and whispered in the kid's ear,

"Now, kid, I'm not going to hurt you. I just need for you to go along with it and pretend that you're my son, and I'll explain everything later."

Worry filled the kid's expression, and not a little bit of fear. "Okay," He muttered. "What about my eyes?"

He'd hoped he'd forget about that. No choice now.

"Bill, as I'm going to call you, you're... you're blind. You're never going to be able to see."

"Bill" let out a choked sob.

A nurse hurried over. "Everything all right?"

John swallowed hard. "Bill's taking the news badly."

The nurse made a sympathetic face. "Ah. It's usually that way. Imagine waking up and hearing that you'll be blind for the rest of your life. The poor dear. He's such a good lad, too. Was quite polite, even though he was obviously terrified when he first woke up. And he has such a peculiar scar on his forehead!"

John felt himself nod. He had never seen the scar himself, but he guessed it was something.

* * *

About a week later, with the doctor's consent, they were ready to leave, with detailed instructions on when to change the bandages and a handy manual on learning how to adapt when you're blind. The two hadn't talked much. The boy was always silent, answering questions with one or two word answers.

Now, as he saw the bill, John had to grimace. He was low on money as it was, but he dug out the money anyway and handed it over.

The nurse gave the boy a smile. "Now be good for your father, dear. Hopefully you won't be coming back here soon." The kid gave a weak grin in response.

They walked hand-in-hand, necessary with a newly blind child. The boy stumbled occasionally, but otherwise managed fine. When they got to his house, they entered, John warning the kid whenever they came across steps or obstacles.

The boy was unnaturally quiet, never questioning who he was or where they were, a fact that surprised John. Weren't all kids his age(six, he had found out from the doctor) naturally inquisitive and noisy?

They finally sat down in the living room, facing each other across the glass table in the middle of the room.

Not waiting for the kid, John launched into a description of how he'd found the kid, and why he'd claimed to be his father. He rushed a bit, trying to reassure the kid he hadn't kidnapped him.

Finally, once he was finished, there was silence. Then, suddenly, "My name is Harry."

Startled, John asked, "What?"

The kid said in a quiet voice, "My name is Harry. Harry Potter."


End file.
